The snow fell gently over St. Petersburg, cloaking the city in a pristine white blanket. The towering spires and gilded domes sparkled under the glow of festive lights. Inside the grand Bogdanov estate, the air was warm and alive with the scent of evergreen, spiced oranges, and freshly baked pastries. Yevgeny Bogdanov, ever the stoic figure, stood by the massive window, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the snowfall.

Anastasia Polina Bogdanov, his beloved wife, bustled about the room, her laughter and presence filling the space with life. She adjusted the ornaments on the grand fir tree that dominated the room, her fingers brushing over delicate glass baubles and gilded ribbons. Yevgeny turned slightly, his eyes softening as they fell on her.

"You're fussing too much, Polina," he said, his deep voice laced with amusement.

She turned to him, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire and her endless enthusiasm. "It’s Christmas, Zhenya. It has to be perfect."

"It already is," he murmured, more to himself than to her, but she caught it nonetheless.

Blushing, Anastasia crossed the room to him, her hands brushing away invisible lint from his dark suit. "You’re impossible," she teased, but her tone was gentle. "Even at Christmas, you act like a cold statue."

Yevgeny smirked, catching her hand and pulling her closer. "And yet, you love me anyway, don’t you, my Polina?"

She laughed softly, resting her head against his chest. "Every cold, impossible part of you."

For a moment, they stood in silence, the only sounds the crackling of the fireplace and the muffled laughter of carolers outside. Yevgeny’s arms tightened around her, his rare vulnerability showing in the way he held her as though she might slip away.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly, guiding her toward the window. He pushed it open slightly, letting the crisp air fill the room. The city stretched out before them, a magical tapestry of lights and snow.

He reached into his pocket, producing a small velvet box. Anastasia gasped softly as